I Just Want You To Know Who I Am
by Rogue137
Summary: (OneShot, Songfic)In the aftermath of the burning of the Opera, Christine's choice, and the Phantom's escape, he returns to the ruins to contemplate what has happened, only to meet another unsuspecting contemplator.


**Author's Note:** Okay, first POTO one-shot songfic… (crosses fingers and wishes it'll get at least 5 reviews) It's in 2004-movie-verse, so I apologize to ALW musical, Leroux, and Kay fans.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Erik, and no matter how much I bug him, Andrew still won't take up my offer! (pouts) I also don't own 'Iris' by the Goo Goo Dolls. The only thing I do own is my imaginative part in the aftermath of Erik's poor rejection.

_**I JustWant You To Know Who I Am**_

OoOoOoO

A lone, hooded, shadowy figure stands in front the smoking ruins of _L'Opéra Populaire. _The sky was gray and gloomy, perfectly matching the ambiance of the area. He fingers a small, glinting object, clutched close to his heart. He walks into the nearly none-existent doorway and onto the charred, smeared, ash-covered marble floors. He paused at the equally scorched grand staircase. An expression of remorse twisted his masked face. A face already burdened with the grief of a lost love.

_And I'd give up forever to touch you  
Cause I know that you feel me somehow  
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be  
And I don't want to go home right now_

Despite the dangerous state of the building, he strode, almost mournfully, toward the theatre hall. Small fires still smoldered on the almost black upholstery of the once red velvet audience chairs. And the chandelier…oh that cursed chandelier…the one that exploded and set fire to the magnificent, world-famous opera, lay in the middle of the destruction. And there, behind the slightly obstructed view by the fallen chandelier, was the stage.

"Christine…" he whispered, his voice as soft and mysterious as the wind.

_  
And all I can taste is this moment  
And all I can breathe is your life  
'Cause sooner or later it's over  
I just don't want to miss you tonight_

Memories of him caressing her, singing his last duet with her…and then being exposed by her in front of all refined Paris flooded his mind as he gazed upon that haunting stage. He walked, almost glided, toward it in sorrowful remembrance. He sat on it, staring at the spot where they had performed the opera that none of Paris will ever forget, still fiddling with the tiny object in his hands, which turned out to be a single, diamond-studded ring. Like a film, that moment played before his eyes, his memory almost teasing him into hallucination.

But he was jolted out of his reverie by small, quick footsteps on marble. Panicking, his stood up, shoved the small ring into his pocket, and ran as quietly as he could to the nearest hidden passageway that he could remember; the one right on the other side of the stairway to Box five. It wasn't as badly burned as the other wooden staircases, so he swiftly entered the dark, hidden corridor and closed the wall-door.

_  
And I don't want the world to see me  
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
When everything's made to be broken  
I just want you to know who I am_

He could hear the footsteps, now muffled on the scorched, but carpeted floor, enter the auditorium. Cautiously opening the door a hair's-breadth, he looked to see who was so foolish to be walking into such an architectural hazard. But he reminded himself that he was _also_ fairly foolish to do so.

It was Meg Giry. She was wearing an almost swashbuckling outfit, a manly white, long-sleeved shirt and tight brown trousers and rough, dirty boots. She held something in her hands. He couldn't make it out, but he could see by the way she held it that it was solid, and somewhat curvy. Her long blond hair was straight and a little wet. Had she been in the mob that ransacked his home? He opened the door a little bit more, wanting to see her expression. Was she triumphant that she and those other fools had run the infamous Opera Ghost out of Paris, and out of their lives? Or was she disappointed that they weren't able to capture him and send him to the gallows that morning? Was she happy of the upcoming marriage of her dearest friend and her fiancé?

The thought brought an unwelcome feeling of overwhelming remorse and a sob in his throat.

_  
And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming  
Or the moment of truth in your lies_

_When everything feels like the movies  
Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive_

"Who's there?" the frightened voice of the young Giry called out. The Phantom saw that she had dropped a white object on the burnt floor of _L'Opéra Populaire. _It was his mask. His stomach clenched. He had been looking all over his trashed home searching for it! Why did she have it? As a token? Did she wish to use it as an object to show off to those other ballet rats? A hot iron of anger rushed through his veins.

"Calm yourself, Meg," he heard the dancer mutter to herself. "It was probably your imagination." She then bent down to pick up his mask. The Ghost took this chance to speak.

"Leave it!" he bellowed at her. The domed ceiling of the _Opera_ made his voice seem like he filled the room; a feature that he admired greatly.

Meg squeaked in fright, jumping away from the mask, only to fall and land her right leg directly beside one of the little fires. Crying out in pain as the flame caught the pant's cloth and burned her leg; she tried desperately to put the fire out. The Phantom laughed cruelly.

"Perhaps you should try not to be so vain in trying to show off your underdeveloped figure, and you might have just scorched the cloth," he mocked her. Too afraid and too much in pain to be humiliated, she whimpered pitifully, ripping away the burnt material to reveal a large, shining burn. She stood up, gingerly testing her right leg under pressure.

"Forgive me, _monsieur_," she said, her eyes wide, searching the entire room for the Opera Ghost. "I-I was going to leave it here for you, anyway. Please, I meant no harm!"

"Very much terrified of the murderous Phantom of the Opera, aren't you, my little ballet rat?" he sneered, opening the hidden door and stepped quietly out of it, careful not to give away his presence.

"I…I…am not sure, _monsieur_," she stuttered. "Christine…Christine always spoke of you as her Angel. P-Perhaps you are a little of both?"

He laughed once again, walking around the broken chandelier, still hiding his existence.

"_Both?_ My dear Meg, after all you have seen, can't you see that the only angel I manifest is the Angel of Death!"

_  
And I don't want the world to see me  
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
When everything's made to be broken  
I just want you to know who I am_

"If…if it suits you, _monsieur_," Meg half gasped. "This burn is very painful, and I would like to get it treated." She began to limp slowly toward the exit. As she past the chandelier, he stepped in front of her, holding the mask that she had left behind her only a second earlier. She stared frightfully at the man, the hood of his cloak hiding three-fourths of his face.

"Thank you for returning it," he said softy. "You do not know how much this mask is a part of me."

_  
I don't want the world to see me_

'_Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
_

Meg just nodded, her eyes wide at the gentlemanly manner that the Phantom spoke to her, whereas he had been cruel and mocking just a little while ago.

_When everything's made to be broken_

_I don't want the world to see me_

"Take care of that leg," he said politely as he stepped aside to let her pass.

"Merci," she muttered, her eyes yearning to see this man's eyes. She began once again to limp out of the _Opera_. But one question nagged her mind, and she turned around after taking naught but ten steps. As she did, she saw that the Phantom's hood was down and he had just put his mask in place.

_  
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
When everything's made to be broken_

"What is it?" he asked sharply. Meg was taken aback from the weary and sad look in his eyes, which were no colder and no bitterer anymore then hers were.

_  
I just want you to know who I am  
_

"I…I just wanted to know…what is your name?"

His face fell into a strange expression of surprise, and then hesitation.

_I just want you to know who I am  
_

"Erik," he said in a low voice, almost as if it was a secret. "My name is Erik."

Meg nodded, a small smile touching the edges of her lips. So the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, really was just human.

_I just want you to know who I am_

"Goodbye Erik," she said, her hand rising slightly in farewell. Erik just nodded curtly. She then turned, and this time not turning back.

_  
I just want you to know who I am  
I just want you to know who I am_

OoOoOoO

**Author's Closing Note:** (sighs dramatically) Beautiful, isn't it? (sighs again)

**Review please!**


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